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When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
W. Shakespeare
This is the temple of Hephestus, one of the twelve gods of ancient greeks. Hephestus was the protector of craftsmen and blacksmiths. His temple was built in appr. 460-415 B.C. at the Agora, the heart and soul of ancient Athens, at the very spot where the idea of democracy was born.
Explore #274
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntm1YfehK7U
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an off hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine, staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun
And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say
Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells
[Scorrono ticchettando gli attimi che compongono un giorno noioso,
tu sprechi le ore percorrendo vie fuori mano
gironzolando per una piccola zona della tua città
aspettando che arrivi qualcuno o qualcosa a mostrarti la via.
Sei stanco di stare al sole o di stare a casa a guardare la pioggia,
sei giovane e la vita è lunga, c’è troppo tempo da ammazzare oggi,
e un giorno ti volti e vedi che dieci anni sono scivolati via,
nessuno ti ha detto quando correre, hai perso il colpo di pistola.
Allora corri e corri per raggiungere il sole, ma sta tramontando
e facendo il suo giro per rispuntare ancora una volta dietro di te
Il sole è lo stesso nel suo moto relativo, ma tu sei invecchiato,
il respiro è più corto e la morte un giorno più vicina.
Ogni anno diventa più corto, sembra che il tempo non ci sia mai,
i programmi o falliscono o diventano mezze pagine di linee annotate,
Sopravvivendo nella quieta disperazione alla maniera inglese
Il tempo è terminato, la canzone è finita, pensavo di avere ancora qualcosa da dire.
A casa, di nuovo a casa,
mi piace essere qui quando posso,
quando torno infreddolito e stanco
è bello scaldarsi le ossa accanto al fuoco
In lontananza, al di là del campo,
il suono della campana di ferro
richiama il fedele ad inginocchiarsi
per sentire le parole magiche pronunciate dolcemente.]
Pink Floyd
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One of two existing steam turbines at the now-demolished Kern Power Plant outside of Bakersfield, California.
Jesus falls the third time.
The Barbican & St Giles Terrace
G. Roland Biermann, Stations, 2016
Sleek minimalism meets gritty reality. Two crash barriers slice through the air, narrowly missing each another before piercing the wall behind. Jesus’ fall finds a contemporary echo in the everyday tragedy of a car crash. Oil barrels suggest automobiles, but we might also think of olive oil, used in the Bible to anoint priests and cure the sick. Painted fourteen shades of red—suggesting blood that runs, congeals, and quickens anew—the barrels symbolize the Stations of the Cross. Some viewers might find consolation in the symbolism of Holy Blood and Holy Oil. Others will be reminded of blood spilt in the pursuit of fossil fuels. The tensions and binaries in Biermann’s installation—sacred and profane, ancient and modern—suit this site. During the Blitz, the area was devastated—including much of medieval St Giles Cripplegate. Today it houses the Barbican, a symbol of postwar hope and utopian ambition.
© Mazur/catholicnews.org.uk
too slow for those who wait,
too swift for those who fear,
too long for those who grieve,
too short for those who rejoice,
but for those who love, time is eternity.
Henry Van Dyke
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Talent : Elsa